


Dear Angel, Dearest Demon

by shadow_in_the_shade



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Codes & Ciphers, Drunkenness, Epistolary, Guilt, Language, M/M, Overthinking, Porn, Separations, basically: drunk Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-07-20 10:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19990597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/pseuds/shadow_in_the_shade
Summary: A series of letters between an angel and a demon during a period of separation, having occurred after an incident neither of them are mature enough to talk about sensibly, both being far too stubborn and obtuse to admit their feelings first.





	1. Chapter 1

**September 1812, Moscow**

My Dear Aziraphale,

Ummm yeaaaaah. ~~Fuck this is difficult, I suppose “sorry” doesn't really cover it does it? Oh bollocks.~~

So okay, how are you? I know, I know, and I'm sorry, alright, it's been what um twenty years? Just didn't know what to say, you know? Didn't know how to start – hey, I mean you didn't write to me either you know! Anyway here I am and here I hope you are or this won't even reach you. Moscow, Moscow is nice, thought I'd come and whisper a word or two in Bonaparte's ear, you know? Only it turns out quite a few of us got here before me. Oh well. So I whispered a bit at some writer bloke sitting on a haystack instead, now he won't stop banging on about the “Noble Peasant” - gonna irritate people no end for centuries, I can just see it. Heh heh.

Anyway, Moscow's nice, did you ever see Moscow? I mean it's a little bit on fire just now, little bit. Never saw so many churches burning all at once. Beautiful. You'd love it. Actually no, scratch that, you probably wouldn't. Come to think of it. Awww, fuck, Angel I'm a bit pissed. I mean obviously, wouldn't be writing to you at all if I was sober right? Not that I've done a lot of that, last twenty years, you understand. Sober, ugh. Can't be doing it. ~~Ah fuck it Aziraphale I miss you, I can't stop thinking about what happened and now here I am and god knows where you are at least I hope she does, hardly know where I am and fuckety fuck fuck fuck this isn't what I meant to say at all I miss you I miss you I miss you it was so glorious so bloody blazing brilliant and now i't's like being cast out all over again and I'm in dark without your light, I'm not letting you see this fucking hell -~~

Okay try again, ignore the scribbles, like I say, bit pissed, keep talking shit, not important shit, really not important at all. Hah, you're probably don't even regret not hearing from me in so long, this page is such a mess, right? Probably won't even reach you what with the war and the burning city and these Russians and the fact that I probably won't even post it ~~just like I never posted any of the other ones. Fuck.~~

So there you have it, or at least I hope you do. Borodino man, you should have been there – or again maybe not, bloody brilliant I thought – well anyway it was a really nice day, you'd have enjoyed the blue skies and sunshine if nothing else. Okay, maybe best you weren't there, lots of blood and screaming, limbs flying around and all that. Good times. I'm gonna head over to St Petersburg now, heard there's a lot of corruption over there and the architecture's nice, colourful, pretty as fuck – for hell's sake what do they _put_ in the vodka round here? Anyway I'll send you a postcard. Or not. Anyway I'll give you my forwarding address, case you wanna write me in St Petersburg,

~~Eternally yours~~

~~With love~~

~~With all my love~~

~~In eternal despair~~

~~In eternal damnation thinking about what we did and going mad for it and in hell without you and fuck my life what do I even.....?~~

Sincerely,

Crowley

**London, October 1812**

My Dearest, Crowley,

No I don't suppose it does cover it does it? Still, I'll forgive you the time gap on account of inebriation on your part, and generosity on mine. Still, it does hurt a bit, you know; especially now we're in the run up to Halloween, you know, and I must admit I always miss you most at this time of year.

I still don't see why you had to run off like that, but I'm getting from your previous correspondence that you perhaps aren't ready to talk about that yet, so I'll let it go. And anyway, in regards your letter – I am sorry but I could only read about half of it, so much was scribbled out, and I don't know if you wanted me to try and make out the scribbled bits or not so I didn't try out of politeness and respect. ~~Oh dear I'm so bad at lying. I mean I did try I am so sorry but I couldn't read it it was just so much of a mess. Anyway.~~

Things continue to click over all nice and neat here, nothing special, nothing terrible, nothing much of anything to be honest, ~~without you~~ it's really all terrifically dull. I'm glad you had fun in Moscow and I must confess a little jealousy about St Petersburg! Maybe one day you and I can visit together, ~~praying that we're speaking again by then and I mean that quite literally!~~ \- although I must confess I have a sneaking suspicion Russia is always going to be a tad backwards, a bit problematic for us. I don't know.

Anyway I'm ~~ecstatic, delighted, enchanted, so breathtakingly happy -~~ pleased you finally wrote – I _would_ have written to you ages ago, dear, but I never had any idea as to where you were now, did I? ~~I wrote ever so many letters I couldn't send, I still have them all under the bed.~~ Hopefully, if nothing else we can at least keep this letter writing business up for a while then, eh?

Yours hopefully,

Aziraphale

:-)

__x__

**Author's note: Plz send helps I did NOT mean to get into this fandom, I fought real hard against shipping these two cause it was just way too obvious given my shipping history and I was convinced I didn't identify with either character right up until I realised I really would dare the french revolution for a good crepe. God damn it. Oh well, here it is, I guess a leetle beet of my War & Peace/ Great Comet fandom snuck in here but don't mind me. Plz send me help and crepes, I'm crying over these idiots on tumblr at _angel-in-the-shade_ :-)**


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

**July 1823, New Holland**

Angel,

Angel angelangelangelangel - stops looking like a real word, doesn't it? But it's been so long since I said your name ~~to anyone who might hear~~ – uff, suppose it's not your name, I mean more a sort of job description? Species? I swear to hell I had one of these bottles before and now I got two. Heh.

Miss you tonight angel, is not going well. I was in France – what was it, I dunno, weeks, months ago, I nearly came home, had a boat booked back to England and everything, then I fell asleep, had a dream. Then I caught a boat to take me as far away as possible. From you. Yeah. Could have just miracled myself to the other side of the world of course, could have just miracled myself to your side but naah, wanted the long smelly choppy journey on a boat full of convicts didn't I? Good times. Wanted to feel the distance, wanted to feel so far away from you I could never -

Do you wanna know what I dreamed, angel? Do you? Gonna tell you anyway. I was dreaming I was kissing you, you were under me ~~just like before, that thing which didn't happen, that night I'm trying to forget, not trying very bloody hard though, well okay yeah trying real hard, thinking about it all the time anyway all the fucking time. Oops bottle went crash across the room, how'd that happen?~~

Ought to cross this all out and start again really, shouldn't I? Oh I know, better plan – I'll not send this letter - great, cool, yeah, gonna write whatever I want and that's fiiiine cause I'm just gonna chuck this in a heap with the rest. Good plan. So that's where I was, and that's where you were, and I was thinking yeah good, good dream this one, one of the best, only everywhere I touched you I started leaving fingerprints and when I looked back the fingerprints were black, black lines streaking through your skin everywhere I touched you and you'd been so perfect and I just knew that'd never come up clean again and then you fell away, just crumbled away angel, all into ash and I couldn't catch a single piece of you between my fingers before every little black bit fluttered away and I woke up, and I thought fuck. I thought yeah, sounds legit and I got on the boat to the other side of the world.

Thing about the other side of the world: It SUCKS. It's rubbish here, all full of convicts and sand and more convicts and the rapid destruction of indigenous peoples and I suppose you'd think that'd be my jam but eh, nothing's fun anymore. Only flipside is they're planning to rename it “Australia” dunno why, but at least it's better than “New Holland” eh? Dunno what it is with naming places after Dutch stuff – never seems to stick.

Miss you tonight angel, miss you in ways I'm just on the verge of describing to you but I can't, not after that, that fucking dream, it's haunting me angel, _you're_ haunting me, and I should take this time to tell you to fuck off but since this is my letter to you that'd probably be a bit redundant. Miss you. Want you. Did I ever tell you I wanted you? Did I ever tell you how much? No, and I'm not going to either, ha, almost got me there. Trying to forget, but I remember everything. Do you remember? _Everything._ Feel of you, the relief. How you smell like summer skies, and the taste of you like fucking nectar, if I even remember what that was like, every sensation of you like coming home. I want, I want, I want -

Did I fly with you or did it just feel that way?

I stole a single feather from your bed. Take it with me everywhere.

Hey look at that, wiggle that sentence a little bit and it might just be a fucking haiku. I'm good. I'm sending you _poetry_ angel, respect. Except I'm not sending this. Another snack for Mr Bin. Fuck this, I'm gonna go breed emus. Reckon a bit of a start on the emu population gonna cause no end of trouble in a few decades time.

Fuck this noise, fuck my life, fuck you angel most of all fuck you,

~~Yours~~ Crowley

**London, August, 1823**

Crowley Dearest,

Please come home, I'm worried about you.

Oh dear. Now I don't know what to say. I couldn't decide whether to even reply to your last letter since you clearly didn't mean to send it, and to be honest I felt bad even reading it as soon as you mentioned your intention to not send it at all. I understand, I have ever so many letters like that but I - well I'm not judging, you understand, but I don't drink and do things I'm not supposed to. I _am_ worried about how much you're drinking; there I said it, even though I know you'll be cross at me for saying so, but please, like I say, I do worry.

I wish you weren't so far away, sometimes I think about materialising nearby but I don't get the impression you'd appreciate it. Anyway, if you _must_ be so far away can't you at least try to enjoy your travels a little? I'm sure I would if I were off seeing exciting places and strange new lands!

I'm honestly trying to think of how to respond to the things you mentioned in your letter but I'm not quite sure how. I _can_ assure you that your dream – that's not something that _would_ ever happen, you know, so you really don't need to trouble yourself on that account if you ever – oh dear. Well anyway, _you know._ :-)

I miss you too, you know,

Yours in fondest concern,

Aziraphale.

P.S. Yes.

P.P.S I mean to say, in answer to your question – yes, of course I remember.

-x-

**My nightmares regarding chapter 3: How the heck do I get Crowley to sober up? When will Aziraphale stop just blushing and going _Oh gosh_ to himself and open up? How much detail about their night together do y'all need anyway?? :-P Next time on _Dear Angel, Dearest Demon!_**


	3. Chapter 3

**4.**

**Fuck Knows Where, Fuck Knows When**

Fuck

Fuck

FUCK

Want you. I need you. Need you, angel. I'm thinking about you tonight, thinking about you with my cock in my hand and that's the truth. Thinking about what we did, what I could still do, what I want to do, _fuck,_ oh – every other minute of every damn day? God damn this. Oh shut up, I mean what's she gonna do? Send me to hell again? _This_ is hell, angel, _this_ is my fucking hell. Never mind falling, _you're_ my punishment, angel, all these years trying not to think about you, distracting myself in a hundred places and ways and still thinking abut you through it all, it's a bloody torment and I – sometimes I wish I'd never met you.

That was mean. It was. I'm sorry. I didn't mean -

Or maybe I did.

Sometimes I hate you, you know that? With your stupid clothes and your idiot plans and your constant bloody goodness. Sometimes I want to wipe that smug little grin right off your face. With my face. I want to kiss you. I remember kissing you. I remember how cool your lips were, how soft, how your skin felt – just the same, I couldn't get enough, I could never get enough and for once, just for once, it felt like I wasn't burning. Like I wasn't damned. It was almost as if salvation existed and you could be mine. Fucking stupid. I thought if I could just have you – just once, or just one night, at least – if I could just fuck you with everything I had, it might get some of that mess out of my system. But it hasn't. Hasn't even cured my lust, let alone the rest, and there's so much more, I can't – I can't – I can't -

I think I'm on a boat. At any rate this shit is rocking.

I was so mad. So furious with you, do you remember? I'd put you against the wall for your irritating unending self righteousness. I don't even remember why I got mad. I just knew that we were at mine – how did that even happen? And you were going to leave, and I – I didn't want you to, so I started a fight. Anything rather than see you go. I never meant to hurt you, never meant to take it where it went and I – ahh fuck it, because of course demons say sorry.

I'd have understood if you _had_ gone, if you'd fought me off; but you didn't and I took that for consent and if I had to room to ask any forgiveness from anyone again I'd ask you but I don't. Anyway I don't want it, deserve it or expect it, so fuck off with it. Nearly six thousand years, angel, six thousand years of wanting you- did you expect me not to break hard? Well I'm broken now, if that's any consolation, broken beyond the fall.

Only – only there was that moment, that long, long moment towards the end, where I could not tell which of us was which, no not where I ended and you began and the world was still but for the beating of wings – sometimes I think about that and if I don't die a little, it – ugh – it allows me to _hope_. Sometimes – sometimes, I actually dare to hope that you wanted everything just as much as I thought you did at the time. Sometimes it gives me life. Sometimes it's the worst thing of all.

I want - I want – I want -

I could break myself against the wall of what I want.

I'll write again from the New World, a letter I'll actually send.

C

**London, October 1831**

My Dearest Crowley,

Thank you for finally sending your address in New York; actually, this isn't a reply to that – since all it was was just an address – I _was_ a little surprised you didn't write – no, I'm going to reply to the letter in the bottle, even though I'm almost entirely sure you didn't mean to send it, let alone for it to reach me. In fact, there's quite an interesting story about how it did, but I really need to address some of the points you made. I have wanted to for some time now, but you didn't seem to want to talk about well – any of that – at all.

Still, here I go, even though I fear you'll be angry with me – oh well, you said you hated me anyway so I suppose it's worth the risk.

We ended up at yours after you miracled us over from France. You said, “whoops, my place,” and I said, “Yes, I had better leave,” and you got – well I _think_ you'd call it “pissy?” You did that thing where you repeatedly say the word _“_ fine,” but in a way that makes it clear that it isn't, then when I asked you if something was wrong, you denied it in a strenuous manner indicative of there being something very wrong indeed. Long story short, I suppose we argued, you called me an “Obnoxious, self righteous arsehole,” and then when I thought you were going to slap me you kissed me. You said you took my acquiescence as consent. Well, I really don't know if this is what you want to hear or not, but it WAS consent, you complete and utter imbecile. I don't know how much clearer I could have made it. I had no idea you could have possibly assumed anything else.

When we – did what we did – that moment – I mean the last time that night – I don't think I've ever felt happier. It was like heaven, but better; there was nothing but you and me and I did not want there to be, not ever. Sometimes, when I'm alone – which is usually – I can still hear our wings like thunder in that room, I imagine I can feel the air beating around me like the breath of a thousand angels. But there was only us, which was better, safe in the centre of our storm that filled the room.

Crowley, dear – I don't want to, but I think now I have to ask – is that why you left in such a hurry? All this time I've been thinking it was regret or that I'd done something wrong, but – did you think I was _you_ that did something wrong? Because that's ridiculous.

~~The truth is -~~

~~Truth is~~

~~The thing is -~~

~~You see -~~

~~You should know -~~

Please come home, dear; it's been over forty years. Halloween is coming round again, and you know you love this time of year. There's nowhere quite like London for Halloween, you know. We could get toffee apples.

Yours eternally,

Aziraphale

-x-

**Ok I realise I had this in my head but didn't actually get it into the chapter. But basically what happened was drunk Crowley threw the letter overboard. Only he decided it would be really funny to put it in a glass bottle first _and_ to address said bottle to Aziraphale, ergo it washed up on the banks of the Thames some months later where it was found by a mudlark one misty morning who knew a chap who knew a girl who worked in Soho and thus it found it's way to the bookshop where an angel tipped a girl so heartily for her troubles that it took her out of poverty for the rest of her life. True story. **

**I literally went mad tonight and wrote like 3 chapters of this. Only giving you one tonight tho :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

**London December 1831**

My Dear Crowley,

The truth is; it's been six thousand years for me too, you know.

Aziraphale.

**-x-**


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

**The Basement, January 1832**

For the attention of the demon Crowley wheresoever he may be,

Please be reminded that it is not within our remit to send strongly worded notes, and that this is an exception based only upon your many years of excellent service. For a list of our usual alternatives to notes please see The Demonic Handbook, Volumes 151 – 700.

It has come to our notice that you have not been active in any noteworthy temptations or wrongdoings for the space of thirty-nine years and fifty one days. This will be your only reminder that such behaviour is unacceptable and that your corporeal form can be denied and withheld as easily as it was assigned. Moreover, for the list of acceptable punishments befitting demons proven to be not performing to standard, please see The Demonic Handbook, Volume 203, Regulations 49 – 73, subsection C.

Yours Insincerely,

Lord Beelzebub (Lord of the Flies)

P.S. We know what you did.

P.P.S. We have stationed operatives to keep close watch on A.Z. Fell's Bookstore of Greek Street, London.

P.P.P.S. For the list of acceptable punishments befitting demons proven to be engaging in unapproved relations with angels please see The Demonic Handbook Volumes 307 - 531, Regulations 120 – 258, clause 5A.

P.P.P.P.S. Seriously. Read these. They're gnarly.

P.P.P.P.Ps. You think these are bad, you should read the Celestial Intervention Punishment Lists. Should this information be relevant to you.

**Colorado Springs, March 1832**

For the immediate attention of Lord Beelzebub,

I must confess surprise at the implications of condemnation you made me regarding my attempts at corruption/ temptation upon a certain prinicpality. I honestly would have thought that any intent/ steps taken towards corruption of an angelic host would be regarded favourably by the lower eschalons. I cannot imagine what other motivations you could assume my having in what you term _unapproved relations._

Meanwhile, I am sure you will also have noticed how rife with sin and temptation life on the new frontier appears to be. I hope it is within the grounds of approved ill-conduct for me to admit to have enjoyed my work out here immensely, especially regarding all my attempts to halt progress in the new world. Also please observe the new style of the saloon doors, the swinging style makes for such easier access to these houses of sin. I can honestly say I am proud.

Yours with all dark and deviant respect,

Crowley

P.S. Thank you for including that full copy of the Demonic Handbook with your previous correspondence. I do appear to have lost mine somewhere in my travels, yes.

**Colorado Springs, April 1832**

To the Prinicpality Aziraphale,

Ha ha, foul nemesis! I **H** av **E** devious **L** y and ma **L** iciously hidden a boo **K** o **N** the back **O** f one of your shelves - “Secret codes and ho **W** to crack them”. I hope thi **S.** causes no end of mischief amongst your doubtless virtuous and tedious customers! Ha ha ha!

Do not th **I** nk you can thwart **M** e **W** ith y **O** u **R** good wor **K** s, foolish Pr **IN** cipality, for I am even now plannin **G** my next m **O** ve a **N** d **–** oh **I** say, bugger **T** his for a lark! Why am I even talking to you anyway? Begone foul angel!

Your greatest enemy and most nemesisy nemesis,

The demon Crowley

P.s. **I** dream and wish always for you to **M** ost pa **I** nfully and helli **S** hly **S** uffer in a fiery furnace of **YOU** r own making. Mwa ha ha!

**London, June 1832**

T **O** t **H** e Drea **D** ful D **E** mon Crowley,

Pl **A** gue me not with thy foul tempations, oh g **R.** eatest and most nemesisy nemesis! **I** wis **H** t **O** never hear from you again and **P** l **E** ad **W** ith you not to continu **E** to cause such mischief among g **'RE** atly esteemed a **N** d virtuous cust **O** mers. You have no **T** the fa **IN** test idea how much **TROUBLE** you have caused.

The truth is, foul demon **CROWLEY** **–** **I NEED** **YOU.** to leave me alone. Without you in my life I might have such greater opportunities for doing good, and if Hell would just remove you from this Earth or take you away for some other purpose, it would truly be the best thing that could ever happen to me. **YOU ARE** quite honestly the worst thing in **MY LIFE.**

Your most irritated and over worked nemesis,

The Principality Aziraphale

P.S. **I HOPE** never to see you after you return to **HELL.** You are not only tedious and evil but you **ARE** also profoundly **STUPID.** So there!

P.P.S **HOPE THAT** you die, and that this **WAS** the last time I ever had to hear from you, **ALRIGHT.**

__x__

**Naah I'm not giving you a quick glance translation, thought about it but I'm just not that nice :-) I can't decide whether I should just imagine they used a trickier code or that they did in fact write these letters exactly as seen and hell really is incredibly stupid - i think maybe the latter is funnier so maybe go with that?**

**In other news I'm not sure this IS gonna get E - rated later? Maybe I should re-brand it as M? What do folks think?**


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

**Colorado Springs, October, 1832**

Dear Aziraphale,

I'm so sorry this letter took so long, of course I'm sure you realised I was waiting to hear back from Lord Beelzebub as regards my defence that I was simply attempting – and I bragged that I was doing so most sucessfully – to tempt and bring down an angel. This _is,_ apparently a valid, in fact praiseworth defence and I have finally heard back from his tedious Lordship commending me for my efforts, though also – I'm afraid - awaiting your imminent arrival in Hell. Still, at least for the moment, they're satisfied, no longer watching our correspondence and moreover, pleased with my work in Colorado Springs. Thank Satan for small mercies, eh? By the way, I'm sorry about the _attempting to corrupt you_ defence – honestly I think it's better they think that than suspect the truth, don't you?

Now I'm fretting whether or not I did the wrong thing again. Story of my life. Ah well.

Ughffff. Nrghhhh. Dunno what to say now. I seem to be quite pitifully sober.

~~I seem to be -~~

~~That is to say -~~

~~I keep thinking about -~~

~~Ahhh motherfuck -~~

~~I mean did you really mean all that, or did I just read your codes wrong?~~

~~Oh fml -~~

To be honest, angel, your code was pretty crappy; I mean you used whole bloody words in there! And you actually _do_ have a book on code in that shop of yours, you know, so I dunno what your excuse is. I'm still loving life in a town who's idea of a library is the fact that one bloke has a single shelf of beat up hardbacks in the grimy back corner of the post office.

ARGGHHHHH!

I keep thinking about what you keep saying – you keep saying “Come home” just like that, like it's easy. I want to pretend I don't know what you mean by “Home”, that you don't simply mean _where you are,_ and I want to pretend that doesn't feel like the right definition of the word, but it _does,_ and now – now I just keep thinking about being there. Where you are. But it wouldn't be clever just now, not with Hell only just off our backs. And it wouldn't be clever – I'm trying to think of another reason why not, angel, help me out here. You know I want you. You know how and how much I want you. You know how I live in you, in the taste and feel and sight of you; you know I'm living there already even without you. You know what I could do to you and you. Don't. Seem. To. Mind.

Ngk.

I can't believe I just _wrote_ “Ngk”. You can imagine it in my voice if you like.

Oh I dunno. Saloon. Drink. Yeah. Piss off the railroad expansion folks. I do love that word “Saloon” you know. Think about it _salooooon._ I got a cowboy hat. S'black.

Anyway yeah,

~~Fuckity fuck fuck fuck~~

Yours in a state of fuck,

Crowley

P.S. *Shome tiiiiime later* - Ish Halloween! Happy halloween angel! Tried to eat a toffeefeefee apple for you but I got saaaad and cryed abou how youwashent there. I did. I cried a buckedAnden den I tried to bob for apples, heeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Wet now. Splooosh.

Aaaaangel

Angelangelangelangelmyangelwannafuckyou heeeeeeeeeeee. :-PPPPPPPPP

**London, November1832**

My Dearest, Crowley,

Please don't apologise for the “Corruption” defence; I'm just glad you managed to avert trouble so effectively, although before you start thinking that any corruption _was_ involved – and I don't know if you'd be proud or guilty of the idea – please let me reassure/dissuade you that it was as much my doing as it was yours, and honestly how I have not fallen I will never know. Maybe if my side were as attentive as yours – well let us just to be relieved they are not.

Honestly I cannot find it in myself to believe we did anything wrong. Please note I said _we_ not just myself. While I'm at it, on the honesty front, I'm going to say it; thatnightfromstarttofinishitwasthebestnightofmylife. So there. I am apparently cursed with the greatest of memories; if I close my eyes I can feel your breath on my skin, I can feel you next to me, If I stop trying ever so hard not to I can still feel you inside me. I miss – oh well, I must have said _that_ at least a hundred times now. I just wish I knew what it meant or where it can possibly go. All I can say for sure is that I _do_ so want to see you again.

Maybe – I don't know – I suppose I have a different sense of _home_ to you – but even having been here all this time in one place it would feel more like home to me if you were here. There _is_ only one reason to leave home, you know, just like the poet said, and surely where I am is not the mouth of a shark to you?

~~Please stop finding reasons to stay away -~~

Oh well. You do what you have to do. I can picture you in a cowboy outfit with near frightening clarity!

Yours hopefully,

Aziraphale

P.s. I have to tell you – I've sat on this too long – I have a feather of yours as well. I can't stop dithering over whether to tell you what I do with it or not. Um.

-x-

**Low key worrying that my Aziraphale is starting to sound too needy though my beta assures me he's not nearly as needy as Crowley which makes it ok? I got delayed writing this chapter for a week with work and flu and rubbish but I just did two chapters so the next'll be quicker! :-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

**The Penthouse, 25 th December 1832**

To the Principality Aziraphale,

We would cordially suggest you not be relieved too quickly; we are more attentive than you think. We trust and anticipate an explanation for certain of your actions as we discern them from the two letters we have intercepted.

We will take no further action at this time, given the season, and send you our most felicitous greetings upon the occasion of our saviour's birth. Nevertheless be advised this has been A Strongly Worded Letter™

Yours sincerely

The Archangel Gabriel

P.S. Please feel free to engage in The Merry Christmas and The Happy New Year.

**On Cloud Nine, Whenever**

Fuck, Angel,

Your letter did things to me. I can't lie, to have _you_ say this, remember this – yeah, it's continuing to do things, I can't even keep my cock down for thinking about you, thinking about you thinking about me, did you ever wonder if they linked up – all those times you thought about me touching you – if they were the same times I was touching you in my head, inside you in my head, if I could just get every second of your skin beneath my fingers, find salvation inside you – of course it's too much to hope.

Sometimes I do. I still do.

I thought after nearly six thousand years – I mean there was a point where I thought if I could just have you, if I could just get deep enough inside you, crash all those years of wanting into your corporeal form – maybe it would cure it, maybe I could stop thinking and hurting for you, even just for a while. But all it did was give me something solid to think about every time my thoughts came back to you. I didn't even know we _could_ want like this. I was so angry about it, maybe I still am, for sure when I kissed you I could feel all the fury of wanting to, when I had you that first time I was still so raw, so savage with the need for you, so angry with my own cock for torturing me like this for so long – I was sure, so sure that that kind of rage and lust and brutality would have frightened you off forever, sure that I had hurt you in a way you – an angel – cannot possibly have wanted. But you _did_ , it's still bewildering me, you did didn't you? You said so, and I should believe you, I think. I thought I would lose myself inside you, had to have you again and again and it wasn't enough, I never got lost – but I think, sometimes I start to think I might just have been found.

The truth is – ugh I hate you, see this is what you do – this is about the worst of what you do to me – make me come out with _true_ stuff – the truth is I wanted you pretty much as soon as I saw you there on that stupid wall outside that stupid garden, wondering if you did a stupid thing with a stupid sword. I saw an angel I wanted to drag off its pedestal and claim; that was the first thought. A great big jumble of thought really, take the angel, own it, drag it out of Heaven; sully, mark, defile. Then I spoke to you, and I realised within thirty seconds how easy it would actually be, how different from all the other angels you were and that – well that did something worse to me and I _couldn't –_ I couldn't ruin you, despite the part of me that wanted to – you were _too_ good, too good for Heaven, actually, but you of all angels didn't deserve to fall and I couldn't be the one to make it happen. But. Demon. Couldn't stop thinking about it all the same. Still can't.

So here I am still without the faintest clue of what to do or how to tell you this one last thing. But -

But this is it angel, I'm coming home. To you. You're right, it's been too long.

Yours imminently,

Crowley.

**London, April 1833**

To t **HE** Dre **A** dful Demon Crowley,

I really am **VE** ry sorry to i **N** form you, but you must **K** now you have the wro **N** g pers **O** n? I **W** ould love to pa **S.** s on your letter to the correct party but that's **GOING TO** be difficult because I do not know who they might be. They might not even be in this country, have you tried Germany or **FRANCE.** For example?I will **AWAIT FURTHER** correspondence from you in this matter even though you are a foul demon and beneath my **NOTICE.**

**YOURS** cordially but in no ways knowing who you are beyond your demonic reputation,

The Principality Aziraphale.

**New York Harbour, May 1833**

To the Prinicipality Aziraphale,

Oh for fuck's sake, and all pestilent foetid bollocks. Not this again. This BS can suck my dick.

Fiiiiiine,

Crowley.

__x__

**Aziraphale is soooo crap at code. Bless him :-)**


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

**Paris, June 1832**

Crowley my dear,

I really am so sory about that, your letter – I mean it was so full of things I'd really been waiting to hear for so long but it really did come at a spectacularly bad time. You see, I'd just receieved a strongly worded note from Gabriel. You know what Gabriel's like, strongly worded rather translates as “heinous threat”. Still, think I threw them off the scent, eh? He did pop me a visit just before I left London, with an awful lot of things to sign to the effect that I Have Not Done A Single Untoward Thing In My Life. Honestly he's such a stickler for beaurocracy. You should have seen all the things he made that poor girl Mary sign. Honestly! Poor thing couldn't even read. I'm not personally sure she knew what she was even consenting to, but trust me, they have those disclaimers framed in pride of place in the Angelic Offices.

Ugh. Anyway, I digress.

You will find enclosed my address in Paris. It's taken several miracles, but I think I _have_ managed to keep it secret from above. Please come to me there my dear, it really is time I did something most terribly untoward. ;-)

There really leaves very little left to say, except your letter left me in a state of need I hardly dare desribe. Please be as quick as you can, I have missed you most appallingly these past fifty years and I need you now like I have never needed anything before.

This is the last thing to say:

I love you, I love you, I love you,

Always yours,

Aziraphale

**Delivered in Person,**

**243 Rue de la Boetie**

**Paris, June 1832**

Hi angel,

Well it's me. You can see that. So I'm standing on your doorstep like a wally yeah. Don't look at me like that. I couldn't very well say this out loud could I?

**This** I mean, you great numpty:

I love you too.

Now let me in?

**For the attention of Chief Inspector Javert**

**Paris Gendarmerie, June 28th 1832**

Terribly sorry to trouble you, Chief Inspector, but I have an account of great curiosity that you may wish to follow up with all due haste.

During my watch earlier this evening, I was accosted by a lady on the Rue de la Boetie, a Mme Bouillibaise of House 241 of that same street. She wished me to address the case of some very noisy neighbours who had but recently arrived in that locale. Consequently I made my way poste haste to the house in question, and certainly the noises of – I hardly know how to put it – but shall we say _gross indecency_ were radiating from that address at a truly shocking level. Not only was it well above the acceptable sound levels for that street at that time, but the noises I was hearing could only constitute truly – I am certain – illegal, and almost certainly sexual acts.

The only difficulty I am having, Inspector, is that upon attempting to knock on the door and engage the culprits, I found nothing upon which to knock. I know this must sound peculiar to say the least but _there was no door!_ When I then rapped most sternly upon a downstairs window – and forgive me, Inspector, but this is the honest truth – there was thenceforth _no window!_ Nor any window in the house! Please may I request your presence at once to verify the truth of this matter and to arrest the guilty parties who I can still hear even now from several doors down.

Yours in consternation,

Sergeant Denoument of the Parisienne Night Watch

**To Sergeant Denoument of the Parisienne Night Watch**

**June 29 th 1832**

This missive, sir, serves as your notification of dismissal from the Parisienne City Watch, and hereby from all factions of Parisienne law enforcement, with the reminder, sir, that drinking whilst on watch is strictly prohibited, as is pranking a senior law enforcement officer. You must be aware I have a great deal more serious business to attend to at this moment in time.

On my very foolish following of your notification I made my way last night to 243 Rue de la Boetie – a house without windows and doors indeed! You must take me for a fool, sir! I found only a very respectable gentleman, a little flushed and in slight disarray – no doubt from being disturbed so late at night. Thankfully for you, Sergeant, he was in an extremely amiable mood and forgave us the indignity of disturbing him at this hour. It is lucky for you, Sergeant, that he did, and that I felt the light of that gentleman's forgiveness so strongly.

That will be all.

**Chief Inspector Javert.**

__x__

**Look shush, I know this went a bit crack towards the end, poor inspector Javert – he did not needs this at this time in his life :-P If you wanna read some serious GO fic of mine come join me in my new venture “Sweetest of words” - it's – uh angsty :-) Also come yell ineffable things at me on tumblr, i'm _angel-in-the-shade_ :-)**

**In other news "Rue de la Boetie" IS actually a real name of a real street in Paris, far too good to ignore but there is nobdy - to my knowledge - with the name of _Bouillibaise_ and yes, I DID mean THAT Javert :-)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Look I know this fic is finished but here's another chapter anyway! Call it a bonus :-)**

**9.**

**America 1831**

My Aziraphale,

Imagine if I were to write you a real love letter.....Okay, I mean I say a “Real” one as though any of these letters were attempts at that. Well maybe they were, huh, maybe – look just because they maybe sucked at examples of that -

If I was going to write a love letter – one in which I didn't just get angry and drunk and mad at you, mad at you for all you do to me, mad at you for everything I feel, mad that I feel at all, I mean I'm a bloody demon, for someone's sake, I wasn't supposed to feel this!

Anyway, let's imagine I wasn't me, just someone who loved you. Someone who _could_ love you, who was supposed to, allowed to even. I'd write you a little piece of my heart each time, I'd tell you how beautiful you are to me, angel my angel. I would sing you praises, say my prayers to you. If it be blasphemy let it be! In fact, good yeah, great, blashpheme. Yup. I might write poems to the beauty of you, tell you how I love every little thing that you do, even the irritating things – _especially_ the irritating things, the way you sing to yourself as you bustle round your shop, the way your pupils dilate when you see a snack you like the look of, the way your forhead crinkles down the middle when you're concentrating really hard on a book – all the ridiculous things that make you you angel, I might tell you how they make me want to look after you forever, I might tell you how soft they make my heart.

If this were that kind of letter, I might begin to tell you how long I had loved you, how it hit me from the first, how it was love at first sight. I might tell you how your heart sang out to my heart, how my soul opened its eyes for the first time in the presence of yours. I might call you so many names, the sweet kind, not the rude ones – half of your heart to half of my inadequate heart – I might call you part of me, other half, soulmate, beloved. But I won't.

If I could. If I were not myself – if I were better, kinder, cleverer, if I was worthy and deserved you – if I were free to say it, I would get down on my knees and tell you of my love. If I could even say the word. But I'm not, and this is _not_ me doing that – understand?

Good, glad we've got that sorted.

I just – maybe I've imagined it from time to time, that's all.

One thing I should say, and I kept meaning to – but that feather I stole from your bed. I'm not going to tell you all the things I've done with that feather. Okay maybe one day, when you're there and I can see you go pink. But I should tell you how soft it is in my fingers right now, how close I feel to you when I hold it, when I write to you with this most special of all quills.

I've been writing with your feather all this time. ~~I hope that's okay with you~~ -

Yours Ridiculously,

Crowley

P.S. To send or not to send, that is the question, eh? Whether tis nobler to post this clusterfuck of a letter or put it out of its misery – eh, wait and see what I do next time I get totally wazzocked, I guess.

P.P.S Them smiley faces you draw on your letters – the fuck that's about, eh?

**London, 1831**

My Dear Crowley,

I hardly know what to say. That was all really dreadfully sweet of you, my dear – but no, I know what you'd say to that – maybe you'd rather I did not acknowledge its sweetness? You never do appreciate that – I can picture your face right now – and I don't really want to picture your face – oh I don't mean that like it sounds, oh dear – it's just – I see your face behind my eyes often enough as it is – so often – and every time I see it, I miss you so terribly much.

Did you really do that with my feather? Oh no I don't mean _that –_ and now I _am_ blushing just like you said – I mean use it for a quill? That's – well, you see, I felt so guilty about doing that with yours that I couldn't find a way to tell you I'd done it, but anyway there it is, and I _have_ done that – I did it a very long time ago. I can feel it in my fingers now, your feathers are so soft my dear, like silk threads in the wind. Sometimes – so often again – I kiss it, hold it to my face as I write – or at least in the moments in between writing – it's not as much of you as I would like, but I suppose I am always greedy, and you _know_ you're the snack that makes my eyes widen the most – all of you would be nice, but this little brush of silk is enough to get me by, to remind me how you felt.

Now look, I cannot draw. You know this very well. But I thought – I thought maybe it would help you understand more clearly the emotion with which I said something if I occasionally drew a smiley face or any kind of face that showed how I felt – to better illustrate the feeling, you see? Sort of an – an icon to illustrate an emotion. An “Emoticon” I suppose you could call it – well that's what I call it in my head, I know, I know how silly that sounds, please be quiet!

Since I can practically hear you laughing at me I suppose I had better sign off. Though I confess I write more than I need to and I love to write more than I should purely for the excuse to hold this little part of you in my fingers.

It won't be long now, I think.

Yours idiotically,

Aziaphale.

__x__

**So. I had this thing in my head about the feathers, I** **'d had it since the start of the fic but only just realised I'd not actually mentioned it. hence this chapter. Also who noticed the added soupcon of War and Peace? Just to tie us back in with chapter 1 a bit there :-) Maybe more bonus chapters to follow? Who even knows, certainly not I! :-P**


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